Tere Ishq Mein | Ghayal !new!

Not by the careless turn of your wrist, or the sharp edge of your goodbye. No—I was wounded by the first sajda of your eyelash. You looked at me, and I bled poetry.

I have become the madman at your door, the faqir who collects thorns as if they were roses. The world calls it a sickness. I call it ghayali —the holy wound. tere ishq mein ghayal

You are the knife and the balm. You are the one who broke my ribs open, then filled my hollow chest with moonlight. Not by the careless turn of your wrist,

For in this wound, I have found my soul’s address. And there is no cure I want. No healing I seek. I have become the madman at your door,

So let me bleed. Let me stumble. Let me fall at your feet until my bones turn to dust.